


The beginning and the end

by tqosaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Help, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12681366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tqosaw/pseuds/tqosaw
Summary: "There are no happy endings.Endings are the saddest part,So just give me a happy middleAnd a very happy start."-Shel Silverstein-





	1. Their last day together

**Author's Note:**

> "There are no happy endings.  
> Endings are the saddest part,   
> So just give me a happy middle  
> And a very happy start."
> 
> -Shel Silverstein-

Their last day together goes like this. 

John wakes first- almost always has thanks to the echoes of his army days that still reverberate through his daily routine. His eyes open slowly- blinking through the haze of heavy sleep and he turns his head. Sherlock lies beside him tucked sideways against the pillow, turned to face John. He watches him sleep for a while, studies the way the light, gentle and golden gives an angelic quality- a warm glow to his hair. His skin. 

The doctor watches him sleep for a long while, eyes half open breathing evenly- until the urge to relieve himself become too great. He ever so slowly extracts himself from the tangle of Sherlock's long, long limbs and tiptoes slowly into the bathroom. When he is finished he washes his hands slowly, eyes tracing the scars and small bruises. John turns his head to look in the mirror and though he looks far more tired than he did a few years ago, he also looks so much happier. 

The doctor pads out of the loo quietly so as not to wake the detective. They’d just finished a case the night before- three days of running back and forth through London trying to catch a killer with a list and a countdown that seemed without rules. They’d caught him of course- well Sherlock had figured out where he would strike next and John spear tackled him before he could kill again. All very dramatic of course. John smiled softly to himself, and rubbed his shoulder through his shirt. It was a good ache- deep and solid. 

He makes his way into the kitchen and turns the kettle on to boil, then pulls out the breakfast things. Mugs on the bench (one with a bee on it for Sherlock, the other with the flag for John), puts too much sugar in Sherlock's and a third of the amount in his own. Butters the toast all the way to the edges (Sherlock won't eat it otherwise) and under cooks the eggs just ever so slightly. He pours the water into the mugs and adds the teabags then walks back into the bedroom to kiss Sherlock awake- it takes lots and lots of kisses. The detective stirs and then stretches, not unlike a cat- joints popping and creaking and he tries to snag John and drag him back into bed with him. It doesn't work.

(later- after- he’ll wish he tried so much harder. Why didn't he try harder?)

The doctor laughs, gives a mock frown and throws his dressing gown at him, walking back into the kitchen to finish cooking the eggs. 

From the bedroom, Sherlock can hear him humming- some inane song from the radio. John doesn't even seem to realise he’s doing it. If it was anyone else Sherlock would throw a fit or tell them off for being so dull and boring and can’t you stop that racket I’m trying to think….but...it's John so it's alright.

Slipping out of the warm bed into the cooler air of the bedroom Sherlock picks his way across the floor and out into the kitchen tying his dressing gown sash into all sorts of ridiculous and unnecessary knots. He flops down into his chair and it creaks dangerously in protest, the lanky and lethargic man picks at his eggs when John puts them in front of him- complains about the weather, the lack of cases, how slimy eggs are (but he drinks all his tea- and eats all his toast).  
John hums over the newspaper and looks at him fondly. 

“No shooting the wall love. Alright?” Sherlock.grumbled in response “If you are really that bored why don't you memorise….all the different types of light bulbs and their components?” he received a look that clearly stated ‘I've done that already’ in response “fine well...write me a song.” he flipped the newspaper back up. 

“Now why would I do that?” Sherlock sniffs, contemplating throwing his eggs against the wall to see how long they would stick for. 

“Because you love me and are very well aware that I will be quite cross if you shoot the wall again in an attempt to relieve your boredom.” John chuckled and pushed his chair backwards “well I'm off- Sarah asked me if I could cover for someone at the clinic today. Oi!” he said pointing at the detective “either eat those or put them in the bin.” 

He walked around the side of the table and kissed Sherlock on the forehead, lips gentle hands soft against his hair. 

“I’ve already written you a song.” Sherlock calls after him as John leaves the room. 

“I know- I was at the wedding love. Write a new one.” comes the muffled response. Sherlock sniffs again- feigning disinterest but already his mind is ticking away - notes and patterns shifting around in his head.

“Must you go?” Sherlock drawls pushing his eggs around his plate thinking about putting them in John's shoes. Can’t go to work if he has eggs in his shoes.

“Yes I promised Sarah. I’ll be back in time for dinner okay? Behave-I love you.” John passed him by and as he snagged his wallet and keys off the table he kissed Sherlock on the lips- so quick and so sudden that it was barely a whisper of a touch. 

“Bye!” he called as was went down the stairs. Sherlock didn't say anything. Just watched the steam from Johns mug float up into the air, fade away into nothing . Like a ghost. 

Sherlock passed the day by the window violin resting on his shoulder, playing around with the notes trying to get them to cooperate and follow what he wanted. The clock ticked by (ticked down but, at the time he didn't know that.), as he played he watched strangers pass in the street going about their ordinary mundane business. For hours Sherlock watched, observed. watched a lady with her dog (she was worried about vet bills), a man with a pram (considering leaving his wife for another woman- leaving the child), a young man with flowers (told his girlfriend a lie, making up for it). He paused his playing for a moment.

Maybe he could do the egg/wall experiment and by John flowers to make up for it...no John’s hayfever would act up. Make him stuffy and irritable.

It grew later, people wandering by turned into people going home for dinner, to see loved ones and Sherlock's eyes flitted from head to head looking for John's familiar form. But still he couldn't see him. He pondered for a moment- it was Wednesday so Sarah had likely asked John to cover for Dr Mc’Coy who worked till five- it was nearly six but then it was also school holidays which likely meant more ill children so there was every chance John had been asked (guilted) to stay longer. 

Sherlock wasn't worried. 

Six O'clock came and went. 

Sherlock wasn't worried. 

Six thirty. Seven. 

He wasn't worried. John would be home soon. 

Eight O'clock.

Sherlock called. Found John’s phone under his cushion on his chair. 

Eight thirty found Sherlock pacing back and forth by the window. The streets were empty, where was John. He wasn't worried-he wasn't worriedhewasntworriedwasnotworriedworriedworriedworriedworr-

A knock at the door startled Sherlock. John must of forgotten his keys. No. Not John- Mrs Hudson opened the door, quiet voices...heavy steps on the stairs Lestrade then. But if he had a case he would have texted- or be bounding up the stairs like he always did. Why was he walking so slow? Whywashewalkingsoslow.

The DI appeared in the doorway and Sherlock's eye flickered over him unable to stop. Shirt rumpled, serious stress- lingering cigarette smoke, emotional turmoil, eyes damp, slightly swollen recently been crying. Why WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY-

“Sherlock.” Lestrade said quietly. Barely a whisper. 

“No.” the detective hissed. As though that simple, single word could change that path of fate- prevent the inevitable. “No.” he moaned, legs going out from under him “No.”

Their last day together goes like this. John wakes up- doesn't wake Sherlock, makes them breakfast- Sherlock complains, leaves for work, says goodbye. Tells Sherlock he loves him. Sherlock doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't say I love you.

Why didn't he say goodbye? 

Why didn't he say goodbye?

Why didn't he say goodbye?


	2. Their first day together (officially together)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im going to start suggesting a song for each chapter- some will be mood music others just for feeling and shits 'n' gigs. 
> 
> Last chapter: Ghost song by Max Ablitzer
> 
> This Chapter: Between the raindrops by Lifehouse

Their first day together, as an official couple goes like this. 

Well- to say it was a day wouldn't exactly be right. Considering it was two O'clock in the morning and both were tied up- back to back with blindfolds on trying to navigate their way through the dark. 

“Can you not go so fast Sherlock?” John growled, nearly tripping over his feet as the Detective tugged him forward. 

“Do you want us to get out of here or not?” was the snapped response and John nearly yelped as he was tugged forward again.

“Yes I do. But we won't be going anywhere at all if you make me trip over. My legs are not as long as yours and I'm walking bloody backwards.” Sherlock didn't respond but- John did notice he had slowed down (if only a little bit). 

It had been a case (wasn't it always?). The most interesting case they had had for a long time. Easily hitting a seven when Lestrade had first called- jumping to an eleven by the time they had spent ten minutes at a crime scene. A locked room, two bodies seemingly dead without cause and a very, very angry pigeon. Sherlock had been quick to figure out the cause of death (poison on the bird's feathers) and how the killer had gotten out of the room (sliding panel in the fireplace) but had been unable to figure out the motive or the culprit.

This had sent them crisscrossing backwards and forwards across London trying to find an inkling of evidence- the tiniest clue. But there had ultimately been nothing. 

“Sherlock please. Can we stop for a second” John sighed “I don’t want to die today but I also would really like to stop for a break we’ve been wondering around for hours.” 

“Two hours and fifteen minutes John.” Sherlock sighed “hardly hours” but he stopped all the same. The pair managed to lean themselves against the wall and slide down it so they had a way to get back up. John could feel his legs aching. Everything ached actually. 

He had been grabbed outside Tescos, having gone to get more olive oil since Sherlock had used the last of it in an experiment. There had been two of them but John being John- he hadn't gone willingly or quietly. The fallout of that had been a bit of a bloody brawl. But two against one is ultimately odds that don't look especially favorably on the one and they had knocked him out. With a lead pipe.   
That had hurt.

John could still feel a sticky patch at the back of his head. 

They had grabbed Sherlock later- or perhaps that wasn't right. He had received a text from John's phone to alert him to the fact he had been kidnapped and had come to find him. So gone willingly would perhaps suit the situation better. 

“John?” said Doctor's head snapped up and he blinked through the darkness, eyelashes catching on the rough material of the blindfold. He hummed.

“You weren't responding. Are you alright?” Sherlock asked and John could feel him turning in their bonds. As though he could see John. 

“Fine.” he grunted, but his head ached and he felt like the world was shifting under his feet even though he was sitting down. “maybe not.” his stomach began to churn.

“Don't throw up.” Sherlock sighed, and to any outside ears he would simply sound disinterested at best. But John knew him- perhaps better than anyone and that little huff at the beginning of the sentence, followed by a popped ‘p’ meant he was concerned.

“I'll be alright.” John sighed a small smile breaking its way onto his face “It’s catching up to me I think…” 

“Whats catching up John?” Sherlock said carefully. 

“The blow to the head with a pipe.” he laughed (if it sounded more like a broken sob Sherlock didn't draw attention to it).   
“keep me talking if you can…don't think I'll be going anywhere fast...sorry Sherlock.” 

“oh don't be so dull as to apologize for something you cannot control. When did they hit you?” Sherlock drawled. 

“I’d rather be talking about anything but- if you don't mind.” The detective scoffed but didn't pry about the attack.

“Did you know Anderson sucks his thumb?” John coughed out a laugh. 

“No- h-how do you know that?” 

“His teeth, and he constantly moves his hand towards his mouth, I've also seen it.” John could hear the clear smirk in his voice. John’s stomach rolled over and he groaned ever so slightly. But before Sherlock could draw attention to it he asked him to keep going. 

“Donovan has an obsession with trains. One she is ashamed of.” Sherlock hummed “she could probably name at least fifty different types if asked.” John gave a brittle smile. 

“Lestrade is allergic to avocados and Jelly.

Molly talks to the corpses in the morgue when she thinks no one is there.

Stamford has a stash of creamed biscuits in his desk at barts. 

Mrs Hudson used to be a stripper and still has some of her old...clothing…” Sherlock continued to list odd little things he knew about those that John would consider their friends (well...maybe not Anderson…) and it worked. For a while at least. 

John felt sick as a dog, over heated and aching he wondered if they had drugged him after smashing him over the head with the - 

“John!” Sherlock barked, he sounded more alarmed than the doctor had ever heard him. 

“hmm?” John hummed his head close to his chest. “sorry….” 

“You need to stay awake.” Sherlock said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Tell me something I don't know.” he had meant it to sound sarcastic but the wires got crossed somewhere between his muddled brain and his cotton tongue. The words slipped out pleading- a desperate tone hidden under the slightly slurred syllables. 

“You can’t go to sleep because you might die and I don't know what I would do with myself.” Sherlock said quietly. 

“You would be just fine.” John sighed tipping his head back against Sherlocks. 

“I wouldn’t though. You have become irreplaceable John, invaluable to the work...to me…you keep me right John Watson and I would perish without you.” 

“careful….That sounded a bit like a confession…” John whispered. 

Silence for one beat.

Two.

Three.

“If it was?” 

One.

Two.

Three.

“Then I’d tell you that I loved you as well.” 

One. 

Two-

“I'll get us out of here John. And then I'll take you to Angelo’s...if your amicable of course.” Sherlock huffed. 

“I think I would be...after a trip to the hospital maybe so I don't...you know keel over on our first proper date.” John laughed dryly. 

In the end Sherlock never got them out of there- Lestrade did, having figured out where they had been taken by himself (he was a detective inspector after all and not nearly as incompetent at Sherlock often made him out to be). They did go to the hospital and John did get checked out and of course dinner at Angelo's was postponed for three days. But much like anything they got there in the end.

When John was finally released Sherlock turned to him and grabbed his hand “Dinner?” he asked quietly. 

“Starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm. Lovely. Gotta love those timelines that don't settle. Not everything will be sad. Probably.


	3. The last time Sherlock sees John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What can I ask-   
> but for you to stay by my side  
> as I walk from this world to the next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In your eyes" - Philip Wesley

The last time Sherlock sees John goes like this. 

Lestrade gathers him up from the floor, scoops him into his arms like one would a child. Someone- somewhere is just groaning the word no over and over and over again. A mantra filled with so much sorrow that it breaks and crackles and tears at the quiet (just as Sherlock’s fingers tear at his skin). 

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry.” Lestrade repeats, answers and his voice is thick and heavy. Desperately Sherlock clings to him, fingers digging painfully into his shoulder and back. A seam gives way under the assault but all Greg says is “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” as if that will fix it. As if by repeating it, answering Sherlock’s broken cries will somehow bring John back. 

(It won’t. They both know that). 

The pair sit there on the floor of 221B together until finally Sherlock goes silent. He is vacant and empty. There is a stillness to him that scares the DI more than anything has ever scared him in all his years. He wipes a shaking hand over his eyes and then utters the words that will forever haunt him-

“I need you to...come to Barts.” 

(the “to make sure it’s him” goes unsaid.) 

Sherlock says nothing, just stares straight ahead. But he is trembling, shaking like a leaf in the wind and Greg wants to reach out to him again but he fears that if he does Sherlock will shatter at his touch. 

(Maybe he already has….)

Sherlock stands. Robotic. Machinelike.

He walks to the coat rack and snatches his coat off the hook so hard he almost tears it. 

(He doesn’t but it’s a near thing).

There is a coldness seeping into the apartment, into Sherlock. It’s clear to see. Bright- sunny- wonderful John is gone. And he leaves a chilling, empty darkness in his absence. 

This is the beginning of the end thinks Lestrade as he follows Sherlock down the stairs and out into the cold street. 

For once Sherlock does not protest to riding in a police car. He doesn’t acknowledge Sally who sits in the front passenger seat. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock.” She stars to say but a quick head shake from Lestrade, as he climbs into the driver’s seat shuts her up before the words can really get out past her lips. 

They drive in silence. 

(Save for the occasional sniffle from Sherlock which no one draws attention to. Not even Sally.) 

It is the longest the trip to St Bartholomew's has ever taken- each moment stretching impossibly longer than the one before it. Sherlock’s eyes slip shut (and if a few silent tears etch their way into his cheeks no one has to know) and suddenly he stands in front of the door to the morgue. 

How many times has he stood here? 

How many times has he been here?

How many times will he be able to return after tonight. 

(He knows deep in his heart the answer is none. Once he leaves this room he will never return). 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade calls softly and it echoes in the empty hallway, ricocheting back and forth like barbed arrows on a unstoppable course. Without a word Sherlock shoves the door open- wants to get this over and done with as fast as he possibly can and strides into the room. He makes it five long steps before his legs nearly go out from under him. 

There he is. 

There is John (Not John.)

He is so still (Not. John). 

So cold (John is warm. He is sunshine and starlight it isn’t John). 

It’s John (No. No. No it isn’t). 

It’s (not) John. It’s (NOT) John. It’s (NOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOT) John. 

On trembling legs Sherlock walks closer. 

(NOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNO-)  
The light is too harsh, to bright and it’s buzzing- buzzingbuzzingbuzzing (NONONONONONONONONO) in the back of his head. He can’t breathe- can’t see everything grows watery and he chokes on the broken sobs that are trying to claw their way from his throat. 

Why do people say they dead look peaceful? That they look asleep? Why do they try to romanticize death? Sherlock never understood. In all the years he dealt with death he never understood. Now he does. They say they look peaceful, that they look like they are just sleeping because they want to make themselves feel better. Relieve some of the pain that is literally ripping them to shreds. But Sherlock (despite what John says said) was not a romantic. John looked dead. He was cold and unmoving and he wasn’t breathing Sherlock wasn’t breathing. Couldn’t breathe and John was just lying there and why wouldn’t he open his eyes? 

(Because he was dead). 

It wasn’t him. 

Couldn’t be him. 

John was smiles and laughter and soft jumpers and sarcastic comments. He was the embodiment of the thrill of the chase and of late night Chinese. This wasn’t John. 

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t John Hamish Watson-Holmes. It couldn’t be. 

He was a husband and a partner. A soldier and doctor. He was safety and oh so alive.  And god why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he breathing? Why was he dead? 

It wasn’t fair. 

(Is life ever fair?)

Why John? Why him? 

It wasn’t John. 

Sherlock's shaking hand reaches out and brushes against his hand. It is cold and stiff and unmoving. It isn’t John’s hand. It isn’t John.

It is John. 

It is. 

The last time Sherlock sees John Watson-Holmes’ body he stands in a room he knows he will never ever return to. He cradles a hand that does not respond to his touch against his chest and weeps. He weeps and weeps and weeps and weeps. And when he is done he stands and slips off the gold wedding band. Strides out of the room and does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments motivate me. Hope this is as fun for you guys as it is for me. (It's not. I'm crying. send help).

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a little emotional plot bunny that wouldn’t leave me alone. You know how those bastards are. I will endeavour to post every friday- I thrive off any form of commentary so please do. If you see any spelling mistakes please let me know!
> 
> ❤


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